


Blood & Bones

by Torched22



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Not Related, Consensual But Not Safe Or Sane, M/M, Revenge Sex, identity crisis
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-16
Updated: 2019-11-21
Packaged: 2021-02-07 08:23:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21454972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Torched22/pseuds/Torched22
Summary: Malcolm Bright discovers that is, in fact, not related to Martin Whitly. This revelation proceeds to destroy his life.
Relationships: Malcolm Bright/Martin Whitly
Comments: 6
Kudos: 85





	1. Chapter 1

It should have been a relief, a joyous occasion really, but that is not how Malcolm's brain chose to process the incoming information. He felt lied to, lost, adrift in a vast sea of uncertainty and anger.

He and Gil and his mother stood in Gil's office. Morning sunlight slipped through the blinds and patterned the floor. The room felt impossibly small and its details fuzzed in his vision. The floor tiles swam. His hearing was muffled by the rush of blood in his ears. Their screaming attracted another - Dani - who had slipped into the space and shut the door behind her. 

"How could you not tell me?" Malcolm asked, tears gathering at the corners of his eyes. His voice sounded small and weak. His mother didn't answer. 

"HOW COULD YOU NOT TELL ME?!" he shouted. 

"I didn't know," she replied. 

His hand shook uncontrollably and he heaved in oxygen to the point of hyperventilation.

"That monster isn't my father and you didn't know? He ruined my entire life and you didn't know?" his voice shook. "You let a serial killer raise me and he wasn't even...my biological father..." Malcolm paced wildly in the small space. "Can you even fathom the pain and suffering I would have been spared if...if..."

"I can't change the past Malcolm," his mother said sadly, tears rolling down her face. "I didn't know that Martin wasn't your father." 

Malcolm's hands were shaking so badly that he had to clasp them together. "I ran my DNA through the database and even through Ancestry sites and didn't come up with any paternal matches...so who the hell is my father?" 

"Malcolm please...I can't...I can't do this right now," she looked around at Gil and Dani. Of course. Of course it was about saving face with her, Malcolm thought bitterly. 

"Do you know who it is? Is he alive? Is he a serial killer too?" he spat. 

"Malcolm," she said sadly, hand outstretched to him. 

"I can't...do this..." tears were now carving rivers down Malcolm's alabaster cheeks. His eyes were red and little spots danced in his visions. A panic attack was barreling towards him - he needed out of this room. 

"Malcolm," his mother begged, but he ignored her. Gil reached out and caught Malcolm's arm, but he shook it off and b-lined towards the door. 

"Bright, you shouldn't be alone right now," Gil said with a pleading in his tone. 

"I'll come with you," Dani added. 

"No...no you won't," Malcolm deadpanned, adding a stern look for good measure. His hand reached for the knob and he pulled the door open with more force than was necessary. The blinds were still clanking against the glass as he walked farther and farther away. Down the hall. Around the corner. More doors. Finally outside.

He managed to make it to the building's steps before he reached into his pocket to retrieve the little white pill that waited there. It was a Xanax. He seriously considered taking it, but just holding it in his hand and knowing it was an option was enough to soothe his vibrating nerves. 

Who the hell was his father? His mind was on fire with questions and the implications that answers might provide. 

There was only one thing that Malcolm knew for certain and that was that Martin Whitly knew. He knew the truth. His thinly veiled statement a week ago had led to this entire debacle in the first place. During one of their little visits, Martin made an odd and convoluted statement. Their conversation took many turns and twists as he has grown accustomed to - however, The Surgeon gave an off hand comment about Malcolm not being who he thought he was. 

As their visit neared its end, Martin also threw in a comment about blood and how familial relations aren't necessary to forge an unbreakable bond. "Fate will find a way," he had said with a twinkle in his eye, and something in Malcolm's stomach twisted. Something was wrong, he had known from that very moment. 

"Why can't you just fucking say whatever it is you're trying to say?" he had lost his temper. His father only smiled a sly grin and called for the guard. As they waited for the guard, Whitly slid his eyes over Malcolm in a way that felt as though a thousand hands were kneading into his skin. A blush crept from his ears down his neck and chest and he left the psychiatric hospital with a shaking hand and pounding heart. 

From there, it was easy for Malcolm to get a DNA sample from Martin. He sent it to the lab, along with his DNA and his mother's. His mother's DNA was the only match to his. Martin wasn't his father. 

He had the test redone. And again. Then he brought alternate samples, sent them to a different lab. Same result. 

His entire life had been fucked. Fucked by a man that he had spent his entire life thinking was his father. His childhood was screwed up then ended prematurely, his adulthood was affected, his worldview and self-view were warped, he was left emotionally stunted and mentally unstable. All because of one man. One man that he had thought he was forced to have a connection with - a connection forged in blood - but it was a farce. 

And Martin knew? He had known?

There was only one course of action now.

The drive to the Institute felt like a blur...a dream...a nightmare.

Malcolm stormed into the Institute (which more of an asylum truth be told) and navigated the maze-like hallways. There was a small voice in the back of his mind warning him that this was a bad idea, but he didn't listen to it. Honestly, it was a terrible idea. When he came to see his father, he had to have his game face on. He had to have a clear reason for being there, and the less personal, the better. Everything about his current state and the reason for his visit screamed vulnerability. The Surgeon could smell vulnerability like a great white shark tracking a wounded creature; and here Malcolm was, bleeding all over the place, jumping into the shark infested waters.

He simply made a decision - shoes clacking on linoleum floor, hair highlighted by fluorescent lights, walking briskly past dirty tiled walls - that if he were to be eaten alive by Martin Whitly - so be it.


	2. Chapter 2

The guard opened Martin's cell. 

The man was sitting in his wooden chair, a book perched on his lap, face tinted with intense concentration. Malcolm briefly wondered if Martin staged himself in a variety of poses, so as to be ever prepared for visitors. 

Martin raised his head, surprise flitting across his features as he closed the book. 

"Leave us." 

"Are you s-"

"Leave." 

The guard is gone, door clicking behind him. Malcolm finds it ironic being in a physical cell. After all, he spends every waking moment in an invisible cell, trapped in his mind. The door never slides open on that cell, the guard never comes to let him out. 

"Son," Martin smiles. "What brings you here?"

Malcolm doesn't answer at first, an uncomfortable beat of silence bloomed between them, thick with the anticipation that vibrated off Malcolm. Martin's face fell. "You look terrible," he said with mock concern. 

"And this surprises you?" 

"Shouldn't it? Or do you usually look like a zombie?" He gave a small smile but it died quickly. 

"You knew what effect your words would have." 

Martin's eyes narrowed. "I'm not sure I follow."

Malcolm began pacing, unable to keep his nervous energy to a dull roar. He rubbed at the back of his neck. 

"What's wrong Malcolm?" 

The young man began laughing and a worried line settled on The Surgeon's forehead. He often worried about Malcolm's sanity, unsure if he wanted to keep it in tact or snap it like a twig. If his son were insane, would it make him more like himself? Still, Malcolm wasn't wearing this look well. His hair was falling out of place, dark circles haunted his sunken eyes, his skin was a shade too pale and the steady clack of his pacing was enough to test his own sanity. 

"Please tell me what's going on...," Martin stood, walking to the end of his leash. 

"Like you don't already know."

"I don't." 

"Your stupid comment about blood? And fate? I caught the hint Martin. I did a DNA test." 

Martin's expression didn't sour, but it didn't show surprise either, it just kind of opened up like a blooming flower. 

"If you had never made those cryptic comments, I never would have...I never would have known." 

"Are you...glad that you know?" Martin asked, treading lightly. 

"Am I glad?" Malcom's hands were in his hair, he kept pacing. "Am I glad that my entire life was a lie? Am I glad that I was needlessly traumatized by you? That I have no idea who I am?" his voice split with pain. 

"Well, firstly, your life was not, and is not, a lie. Secondly, I never purposefully traumatized you..."

"Oh, yeah fucking right," he said just loud enough to not be a whisper.

"Thirdly, you are Malcolm Whitly - the same Malcolm Whitly you were a week ago." 

"Bright...Malcolm BRIGHT." 

"Ah yes," Martin nodded, "you can run, you can change your name, you can refuse to visit me for a decade...but you will always be Malcolm Whitly." 

"No I'm not!" he threw his hands up. "I'm not a Whitly!"

"Of course you are son..."

"Don't fucking call me that!" Malcolm rushed towards his...The Surgeon...with his index finger pointed accusingly. "How dare you," his voice shook and tears began streaming down his face. "How fucking dare you," he choked back a sob. "You knew - you knew we weren't related. How? How long have you known?" 

The Surgeon only clenched his jaw. 

"ANSWER ME!" Malcolm screamed. 

"I knew from the beginning," Martin relented. Malcolm drew in a sharp and shaky breath. "The timing didn't line up," the 'p' in 'up' was emphasized with a smack. Storm clouds gathered over his brow as a disapproving look rooted itself in his features. "It was close. Very close. But not quite." 

Malcolm swallowed but he had no spit, his mouth was dry and more tears blurred his vision. "So why...why..." he choked. "Why keep up the charade? Why keep me? Why would knowing your wife was cheating on you not throw you into a rage that would have ended Mother's life?" 

Martin breathed in. "Lots of good questions. Well, I considered killing you - briefly - but the thought of murdering an infant was distasteful." 

Malcolm scoffed, "ah, the serial killer has limits..." 

"And when you were born and I held you..." he trailed off and for the first time in a long time, it seemed as though Martin Whitly was having a genuine moment of reflection and honesty. "I just knew..."

"Knew what?!" 

"That you were special Malcolm." 

"Ah, great." 

"Plus, I couldn't murder your mother, I loved Jessica - cheating or no. Plus, as her husband, murdering her would be a risky and foolish move. I would have surely been caught. Being arrested in my late thirties was bad enough...eesh, can you imagine if I would have gotten caught a decade earlier?" 

Malcolm shot him an incredulous and disgusted look as he considered all of the lives that would have been spared if his father would have been caught a decade sooner. 

"Plus...I loved you. I wanted to watch you grow up, be an integral part of your life. And your mother was too stupid to ever figure out that you weren't mine."

Malcolm's lips were parted. "And what about her...her..."

"Lover?" he said the word as if it were sour. 

"I never found out who it was."

"I don't buy it." 

"You should. After she got pregnant, she turned all of her attention to taking care of herself and raising you. I suspect that she broke it off with whoever it was. I followed her a handful of times, just to see if I could figure out who it was, but it was all dead ends." 

Malcolm wondered for a moment if Martin's turn of phrase was literal. If he had found out who it was, he surely would have killed the man. 

"Why would you want me to know?"

"Know what? I don't follow..."

"Why would you want me to find out that you and I aren't related? Why drop those hints? Just to prove what a sick bastard you are? Just to gloat about ruining my childhood and life for no particular reason?" Malcolm was over the red line and Martin stepped very close to him. 

"I gave you the best childhood I could."

"When you weren't busy chloroforming me? Or dragging me into the woods with one of your victims? Or hiding women in boxes?" 

The corner of Martin's left eye twitched. "I gave you all of the love and support and knowledge I could. I didn't have to do that. I could have abandoned you and your mother." 

"I wish you would have!" Malcolm yelled. 

"No you don't." 

"Yes I do!" he screamed. "You think I enjoy having to chain myself up before going to sleep because of my night terrors? Do you think I want to take ten different prescriptions and try to hang onto my tattered sanity? Do you know that I hallucinate? I can't keep a relationship? I suffer twenty four hours a day, seven days a week - whether I'm awake or asleep!" Now his eyes were steady faucets and teardrops were marking his vest and button down. 

"I hate you. I HATE YOU," his hands - both of them - were rattling along with his hiccuping heartbeat. He was drowning in emotions, suffocating beneath the weight of the rubble of his destroyed life. He brought a hand up and slapped Martin across the face. Hard. His hand stung and as his fa- ...Martin...brought his face back up from the recoil, a bright red spot began to bloom like a rose on his cheek. It felt good, so he did it again. Again, Martin reeled. The third time that he brought his hand back, Martin caught it before it could land. 

Malcolm was still crying, his body shaking. He could feel his sanity ripping apart like tissue paper. His seams were coming undone, the stuffing was coming out. 

"It's okay Malcolm. I should have told you so much sooner, but you were so..."

"So fragile? So not like you at all," he stumbled through the words. "Weak. Prey. You're a predator and I'm just..."

"No, you're not prey Malcolm." His dad's - Martin's - hand was like a vice around his wrist, his hand still raised and close to the other's face. 

"You only keep me around because I'm the victim that keeps bleeding. Keeps suffering. Perpetual torment, laid out for your enjoyment."

"No...no..." Martin's large right hand came to the back of Malcolm's neck and he drew him in for a hug. 

It should have felt dangerous, having a serial killer with a steel grip to the back of one's neck, but it didn't feel threatening at all to Malcolm. It felt...comforting. 

"I thought you would be relieved that you weren't...related...by blood...to a serial killer," Martin admitted. 

"No, no you weren't trying to provide relief," Malcolm stopped crying into Martin's shoulder long enough to get the words out. "You were trying to sever my sanity." 

"Son, that was never my int-"

"I told you not to call me that!" Malcolm shouted, shoving Martin back. The older man didn't go too far, considering that Martin had three inches on him and far more weight.

Martin just sprung back, putting his hands on either side of the younger man's face, rubbing his thumbs in soothing circles. It was something he had done when Malcolm was a child and awoke from a rough nightmare. Malcolm, in response - despite feeling comforted - shot his hand out and grasped at the neck of Martin's shirt. He balled the fabric up into a fist, squeezing until his knuckles were white. "I want you dead. I want to kill you. Drown you in your own blood. See you choke and sputter on your last breath," Malcolm seethed through barred teeth. 

There was no surprise in Martin's eyes. "I wouldn't blame you," he said. The agreement made Malcom's blood hot. 

"Fuck," Malcolm whimpered. "Fuck you. You fucking...fuck." 

Martin's pupils went from large to larger. 

"I know what you want me to say," Martin whispered. "You want me to encourage you to kill me, but I'm not going to do that."

"Because you know it's what I want?" 

"Precisely..." 

Malcolm moved his hand to Martin's throat and squeezed, reveling in the feel of blood rushing beneath his fingers. The move brought an instant jolt of power and satisfaction to him that was terrifying. He even dug his nails in and tried to break skin. Martin didn't even attempt to fight back, which only further infuriated Malcolm. "You're right, you've been right all along... I am...I am a monster." Malcolm brought Martin to the point of tunneling vision, then let go. The older man sucked in a deep breath, but his reprieve was short lived. 

Malcolm brought a hand to the back of Martin's hair, grasping onto the curls sharply. "I'm going to show you what a monster I am," Malcolm threatened. 

"Are you?" Martin questioned, his eyes sliding over Malcolm's face in a way that felt both like a slap and a caress. 

"Get on your knees." 

Confusion passed over The Surgeon's face for a moment as he tried to process what was going on. The grip to his hair tightened and it sent a tingle down his spine. His eyes widened as he understood what was about to happen.


	3. Chapter 3

Martin did as he was told, dropping to his knees. Excitement rippled through The Surgeon, making him feel more alive than he had in a very long time. 

He looked up at Malcolm through long eyelashes, subconsciously wetting his lips with his tongue. "What are you going to do s- Malcolm," he caught himself. The younger man who stood above him practically vibrated with energy. His breathing was rattled and his hand was going to The Surgeon's hair. Malcolm buried his elegantly long fingers in The Surgeon's curly peppered hair. It was absurdly soft, and irrationally - that made Malcolm angry. He pulled at the curls with both his shaking hands, enjoying the tinges of pain he was bringing to Martin, before pulling him forward. 

"You know what I'm going to do, doctor," Malcolm's hands were traveling from The Surgeon's hair, past his ears, to his jaw. Forward. Forward. Until the heat of his breath was warming the tent in Malcolm's slacks. He was hard. Very hard. His sanity unzipped to the point where he didn't even want to look at what was happening with objectivity. Last week, he thought this man was his father. Today this man was not his father - nothing more than his torturer - someone who deserved to be tortured himself. 

Was that it? Was that why Malcolm was preparing to do this unspeakable deed? Was it to punish Martin? Or was it to exorcise his own demons? 

Thinking too hard about all of this was impossible, the equivalent of staring into the sun. It was bright and blistering and threatened to melt the very core of whatever made up Malcolm.

"That was always your undoing wasn't it?" Martin said smugly. How could one be smug when they were chained to a wall, kneeling in submission in a psych ward? He pulled it off regardless. 

"W-what?" 

"Your undoing has always been thinking too much Malcolm," Whitley taunted. "If you're going to do something, just do it." 

A whimper of sorts left Malcolm's mouth without his permission. His hands went to his belt, trembling and fumbling, but eventually freeing it of its loops. He whipped it off and swung it behind The Surgeon's head. He put the belt through it's buckle and tightened it. Martin just gasped and laughed, a combination that created an odd stuccato sound. 

"Who knew...you're so in...into...foreplay...breath play" The Surgeon wheezed, a grand smile plastered onto his face. "I th-thought you'd be fucking my mouth by now..."

The words stuck into Malcolm's chest, hot like a poker, branding him, making his vision go red. He held the belt with his left hand and began undoing the button and zipper on his trousers with the other. 

"Didn't figure...you...for the...*cough*...rapist type," Martin said, still smiling.

Some of the red haze in Malcolm's vision dissipated. The word "rapist" cut through the air like a stainless steel knife. 

"I'm not a...rapist..." Malcolm grit. His grip on the belt loosened just enough for Martin to breathe and talk better. 

"No, of course not, you're just about to punish me with your cock. Aren't you?" 

The words burned trails of arousal through Malcolm. The Surgeon was smart. But he was just as smart. He understood what Martin was trying to do and he wouldn't let him do it. 

"You want this. Tell me you want this," Malcolm hissed. 

"Or what? You'll tighten the belt?" 

"Or I'll let you go. Which is ridiculous because all you'd had to do was fight me off - which would be easy for you. All you'd had to do was call the guard....or tell me no."

"And you'd stop right now? With that hard cock so ready, so willing?" Martin had brought a hand to his crotch and felt him through the fabric of his trousers. Malcolm's jaw clenched and his eyes shut. 

The Surgeon was trying to weigh his own desires to continue with how he imagined Malcolm might react to this situation once it was over - in hindsight. Would doing this break him? Snap that frayed yarn of his sanity? Or would it simply destroy his morality? The possibilities were endless and Martin was fascinated with every possibility. No matter what the impact on Malcolm, it was something he wanted - badly - for years. Still...what would happen to the young man if he went through with shoving his cock into his mouth?

Malcolm was breathing so hard. He may have been "in control," but it was really Martin who had his hand on Malcolm's fluttering neck, his fingers squeezing around that hummingbird heart. 

"If you continue..." Martin ceded, "you'll have to live with what you've done." 

A sneer twisted Malcolm's features, "and how do you live with what you've done?" 

"It's easy when you're a psychopath. It is poetic though isn't it?" 

"What?" 

"That a psychopath raised an hyper sensitive empath?" 

Malcolm wanted to swallow but his throat was too dry. 

"You wrecked me," he said brokenly. 

"So...perhaps you ought to...wreck me. You may wreck more of yourself in the process though, which is what I fear. I have to want this - yes - but so do you," Martin said. Malcolm could hardly believe that the man with no conscious was seemingly looking out for his...what?...sanity? Wellbeing? He chose now to start giving a fuck?

"Fuck you," he spat. 

The Surgeon's eyes were dark pools of black with a thin line of ice blue enveloping that void. When Malcolm tightened the belt, his face melted into bliss. How was it possible that the ultimate sadist was a masochist? Malcom's head hurt - he couldn't figure out this man, this blight on humanity. He hated him, but that hatred was swirled with so many other things. 

"Choke me with the belt, with your cock, with your come..."

Fuck. Seriously? The Surgeon giving suggestions? So be it. Malcolm found his free hand releasing his erection from the confines of his boxers. Honestly, Martin didn't think the young man had it in him to do something so very...deplorable. Pride surged in his chest, even as air left his lungs and couldn't be replaced. 

"You deserve to suffer," Malcolm said, stroking himself. "But more than that...I deserve to...to..."

"I know," Martin cut him off, licking his lips and eyeing the weeping cock at his mouth level. Malcolm brought it to his lips and smeared it against them as though his precum was lipgloss. Then he commanded Martin to "open," and the older man obeyed. Malcolm waited for a moment - his cock aimed at the mouth - poised to penetrate that poison space. Martin looked up to see what was taking so long and the sight...the sight was breathtaking...from both ends. On one, Malcolm in his expensive suit, hair disheveled, one hand tightening a belt around a serial killer's neck while his other hand held his swollen cock in front of parted lips. And then there was Martin. A man who appeared soft, but was sharper than a razor's edge, on his knees in submission, a belt around his neck - a collar really - tightened by one of the only people he'd ever cared about. He was soft cardigans and flopping curls. His midsection was doughy and plump and his eyes the color of murky waters. He looked up through those long pale lashes, his pink lips apart, red tongue waiting patiently inside the damp cave of his mouth. Malcolm could have come from the sight alone. 

He held it together though, biting his lower lip as he pushed forward, into the slippery heat of Martin's mouth. He was large, big enough that Martin had to struggle to take him into his mouth. It was beyond satisfying to finally shut The Surgeon up. His silver tongue was put to work for a far better purpose than taunting the police or waxing poetic about medicine and philosophy. No, here he was simply reduced to a drooling receptacle for Malcolm's cock - which twitched at that thought. 

What Malcolm hadn't expected was for this to feel so horrifyingly satisfying. Watching his cock slide in and out of The Surgeon's lips - using the belt to pull him closer when he'd gotten too far away - hearing the strangled noises and caught moans of the older man. And then Martin's hands came towards Malcolm's porcelain body. One dug into his left thigh while the other pumped his cock. It felt good, but wasn't quite what Malcolm was aiming for. He slapped away Martin's warm hands and tightened the belt around his left hands, wrapping it up several times to shorten the leash, so to speak. His right hand went back to Martin's hair. 

From the broken groans and uncontrolled squirming, Martin approved of this change. He appreciated Malcolm being harder. He popped off with an obscene smack, just long enough to look at the younger man with hooded eyes and a cheshire cat smile and say, "good job boy. Now fuck my throat like you mean it." 

'Fuck,' Malcolm thought, 'even being used as a cum bucket, Martin Whitley was a self-righteous, arrogant, bastard.' "So tired of you...you smug fucker," Malcolm let his brain quickly come up with a way to take The Surgeon down a notch. He moved, his bobbing cock painfully hard, leaking and a shade darker than the sweetest strawberry. He kneeled for a moment, moving Martin's handcuffs to the back of his belt and snapping the older man's wrists in them. 

Martin only groaned in satisfaction, straining forward against his cable. Malcolm returned to face him and rubbed him through his institute issued pants. The Surgeon growled, eyes aflame with lust as Malcolm undid the pants and reached for his cock. Martin sounded positively desperate now, needy sounds escaping his leather burned throat. His cock was long and thick and pulsing in Malcom's hand. He brought his face dangerously close to The Surgeon's, nuzzling his cheek against the killer's, he could feel the cock in his hand twitch at this. Malcolm moved as if he were going to kiss Martin, who turned his head, ready for it. But Malcolm sidestepped the kiss and instead whispered in his ear. 

"You look so good like this," his breath tickled against Martin's ear. "You belong tied up like the monster you are, choking on my cock while yours goes untouched. You're going to come untouched doctor as I slam into your throat," he stood and resumed his original spot. 

Martin looked mildly unraveled. His hair was mussed, his lips red, his cock arching up and begging for attention. Being chained to the wall - the belt around his neck - the cuffs - they made him look good. Subdued. 

Malcolm grabbed the sides of his hair and began to fuck his mouth in earnest. Rather unexpectedly, Martin was quite skilled and quite eager. He took Malcolm down to his base, choking himself, forcing the turgid cock as far down his throat as he could get it. His efforts were rewarded with a tightening of hands in his hair and an etherial sound cracking out of Malcolm. The young man was beyond rough, picking the belt end back up, choking Martin as his hips crashed against his face over and over again. 

Martin felt quite close to passing out. Luckily, neither of them could sustain this for much longer. The belt tightened and he felt Malcolm twitching and pulsing. Little black dots swam around his vision and he felt his own orgasm approach like a tsunami wave, impossibly powerful, ominous almost, mocking: you'll never have better than this. Not ever again. 

Martin struggled to swallow as he was being choked. Apparently though, the lack of oxygen was bringing his own orgasm to a dangerously high crescendo. His untouched cock twitched and smacked against nothing but his clothed belly, but he came harder than he ever had before. He came and came and very nearly passed out...Malcolm realizing at the last moment that he had rather brutally choked The Surgeon and loosening his grip. 

Malcolm stumbled and heaved and pulled the belt away from Martin's neck. The Surgeon swayed back then forward, and didn't have his hands free to catch him as he slumped forward. The young man rushed forward and let the killer hit his knees rather than the floor. 

Martin just heaved in great gasps of air as Malcolm tucked himself back into his trousers. This encounter would be burned into his mind for eternity. He justified it by thinking that perhaps this level of fucked-up-ness might be a better brand than the one he was used to. Maybe his nightmares would go away at having subdued the monster, at having claimed him, but deep down he knew that he had scarcely done the claiming. No - it was Martin Whitley who claimed - who consumed and devoured and twisted into your heart and soul until you couldn't help but feel just a bit of...something...towards him; a bit of something that you'd never asked or wished for. 

When he thought that Martin would be able to prop himself up, he moved and took a step back, running a shaky hand through his messed up hair as he looked at The Surgeon. The older man was sitting on the floor, flaccid cock lying on his institute pants, his hair completely disheveled, curls sticking up and out like horns. His mouth was parted and sucking in breath. His institute issued shirt and cardigan were covered in his own come. His hands were behind his back. His eyes slowly raised to meet Malcolm's and had a wild and satisfied glint in them. 

The door behind them opened and Malcolm jumped. It was the guard he had grown so familiar with. "Is everything alri-" he stopped mid sentence, eyes falling upon the sight of the prisoner kneeling on the ground. 

"Oh," Martin breathed, "everything is wonderful. Don't look so concerned, it was consensual. Oh, and he's not my son - we're not related," he shook his head. "Although I do think I must have done something right with him," he eyed Malcolm one last time, licking his lower lip. 

Malcolm turned to the guard. 

"I'll give you a stupid amount of money to forget you saw this." 

The guard said nothing, just nodded, and Malcolm nodded before brushing past him and rushing down the hallway.


End file.
